They say home is where the heart is, but what if one’s heart longs for someplace else? They say home is where your people are, but what if your people are everywhere? Home. Where is it? What could it look like? Is it here?

Recently, DJ and I returned from a trip to the Pacific Northwest where we spent a good ten days in the company of good people, all of whom made us feel intentionally at home in a new and unfamiliar place. Perhaps it was this outpouring of radical hospitality that has us now, a week later, feeling so out of place. How could such a profound experience of connection lead us to such a profound experience of loneliness? It’s a strange feeling; a rut in the pit of our stomachs.

A couple years ago our friend Phillip sent us this poem by Richard Wilbur:

What is the opposite of road?I’d say the answer is abode.“What’s an abode?” you ask.I’d say it’s ground that doesn’t lead away—some patch of earth where you abide.Because it makes you satisfied.Abodes don’t take you anywhere,Because you are already there.

I like this poem and read it often.

Can one lust after a place? Or long for a feeling? Seems we have been. This is the first time in recent memory we’ve returned from a vacation questioning everything. Are we where we’re supposed to be? Is this the place we’re really ready to commit to? Cincinnati...really? Today, our view from the kitchen window seems tainted with vacationer’s goggles. Where are the mountains? Home. We’re chasing feelings.

Home. The joy of crisp ocean air on your cheeks while pedaling fast down protected bike lanes in Seattle. Home. Waking to the smell of perfectly brewed coffee and a bowl of fresh oatmeal, enjoyed over deep conversation around a small table with close friends. Home. The pleasure of walking for miles and miles on dusty trails. Home. Relaxing in the backyard with a family who’ve opened their fridge, calendar and lives to you—because they love you. Home. Is it the place we’re after or the people? I know enough to know the answer to that question.

We spent our first evening back in Cincinnati—our home today—at an improv class. We walk to class and pass by an old church building that now houses a brewery, taking in the eclective scenery of our Northside neighborhood. Brooklin greets us at the door with a hug. She’s missed us. More smiling faces wait inside. Joey. Seth. Sarah. Mary sees me from across the room and promptly leaves her conversation partner to plant a sweet kiss on my right cheek. She’s lovely.

Home. Is this our place? Today it is. We play improv games and laugh for a solid ninety minutes until we forget that sinking feeling in our guts. Home. Our people are here.

I ride the bike share to work the next morning. We make plans to cook dinner for friends later in the week. I write this while sipping freshly brewed coffee and waiting for the oats to boil. Home. It’s here.

Something funny is happening lately, and that is, I keep getting invited to have a seat at the grown-ups table. In recent months I’ve been welcomed to the board of a local nonprofit with the specific request that I take part in “shaking things up.” I’ve been nominated to join the lead team at my church, a 2-year commitment that implores me to take part in shaping our community’s spiritual and financial priorities. People I admire—most of whom are ten years my senior—are asking me to suggest mentors for them. There are other examples: an invitation to write an article for a prominent publication; a request to moderate a panel of visionary Cincinnatians as a way to introduce their great work to leaders from nearby cities; an encouraging proposition to deliver a sermon alongside my husband; a call to help shape the next decade of funding priorities for a local family foundation. The list goes on.

I’m not sure why all of this is happening now, but it’s certainly exciting...and terrifying. Exciting because I feel called to step up, have a voice, share what I’m learning and play an important role in making decisions. Terrifying because most of the time I feel incredibly unequipped to do that which is being asked of me. There’s a force at play telling my brain that I don’t have what it takes so why even bother. That same force threatens me with the notion that perfection is the desired outcome so best strive for that. Needless to say, that feels like a lot of pressure and I’m often left feeling completely overwhelmed.

But perhaps there’s another way? What if leadership as we’ve come to see it commonly depicted in our culture is just one mode of operating among many? Can I be a five-foot-two, quiet, contemplative presence who prefers Danskin clogs over Dior pumps and still somehow embody a posture of influence?

Several of my own lived experiences have led me to consider what I value in a leader. Reflecting on these character traits have been helpful as I start to form a vision for the type of leader I long to become. The leaders I admire most share similar attributes:

They model vulnerability–These leaders seem to be unshaken by getting an answer wrong, sharing a “dumb” idea or being imperfect in public. They welcome dissent, are hospitable to criticism and see feedback as a way to move forward.

They shape compassionate, unifying spaces–These leaders don’t put themselves at the center. Instead, they are skilled in facilitating democratic group dialogue, welcoming all voices, gently steering the energy of the room and mediating conflict when it arises.

They embody a sacred listening practice–These leaders are present (phone tucked away) and willing to engage others in the moment with respect and dignity.

They know who they are and have a deep understanding of their own values and how those values shape their leadership practice–These leaders are likely on their own inner-spiritual journey and see themselves “in process.” They’re refining the ways of their minds and hearts and are deeply in touch with their own uniqueness and how that uniqueness can manifest to benefit the world.

As I consider the qualities above, it becomes easier for me to imagine stepping into this kind of leadership. What I may lack in physical stature I can make up for in emotional presence. While I long to have the “right answers” perhaps there’s more value in being a patient listener and asking thoughtful questions. Maybe being uncomfortable behind a lectern creates more opportunity for me to shape non-hierarchical, democratic forums where multiple voices are heard. This kind of leadership feels deeply relational and intimate—it feels more human.

Whether I’m comfortable with it or not, it would seem that a path towards a bolder level of leadership is unfolding before me. Do I trust that path and believe that I have what it takes to make the journey? Will I keep inching forward, despite shaking knees? For me, these are deeply spiritual questions and so I choose to have an equally spiritual response: God does not demand us to be successful; he simply calls us to be faithful. Perhaps the best I can do is trust that there’s a bigger force at work that desires my patience, persistence and obedience, and that that same force is leading me in ways I can’t yet imagine. Maybe we will never feel ready for the adventure ahead, but today, I choose to trust that force and take a step forward.

Recently, I was asked to prepare a shorty essay that describes my leadership role and how that roles has enabled me to "drive collaboration to achieve transformative impact." This felt (and still feels) like such a daunting prompt. I procrastinated for several weeks before finally putting pen to paper. It was helpful for me to reflect on past experiences to begin exploring how those opportunities have informed my path and prepared me for the job I've been invited into today.

For the past decade, my professional journey has been marked by a desire to work alongside people shaping better futures for the places they call home. From classrooms in Detroit, to catfish farms in Alabama, to the evolving neighborhoods of Cincinnati, this path has afforded me countless opportunities to use my design sensibilities to bring community-supported ideas to life. Today, I find myself in the wild and wonderful world of philanthropy. Four years ago, my colleagues and I launched People's Liberty, a first of its kind philanthropic lab that invests directly in people with bold ideas to impact Greater Cincinnati. An outpost of the Haile Foundation, we offer citizens three distinct grant opportunities ranging from 6-month $10,000 project grants to full-year $100,000 fellowships. This five-year experiment seeks to explore how philanthropy can change a community by uncovering and investing in great people. Today, we’ve we’ve awarded grants to 72 Cincinnatians, hired 31 early-career storytellers, hosted 21,000 people for 315 unique events and connected with 56 peer organizations to compare notes and share our model. It’s been quite the adventure.

My work centers on helping folks bring their bold ideas to life. Lisa, a dietician, wants to figure out how to feed our city’s most vulnerable neighborhoods. So we help Lisa develop a way to do that. Nina wants to use her gifts as a photographer to help ensure black men see their value. So we support Nina as she accomplishes that goal. April, a veteran, knows that many returning vets struggle to regain and maintain their self-worth outside the military. So we lift up April as she lifts up others. In short, we’ve built People’s Liberty from the belief that every human being has the creative capacity to make a significant impact in the world, and we feel honored to walk alongside folks as they uncover their passions and put their skills to work for good. Tom Kelley, author and partner at the lauded design firm IDEO, calls this finding one’s “creative confidence.” I just call it being human. Far too many people are unclear about how their hard work benefits the world. We try to remind them.

Nothing we do is possible without an honest ethos of collaboration. In fact, when I reflect on the past ten years, every project I deem successful has only been so because of the people invited to the table. Our friend Tracy—a recovering addict who received a $100K Haile Fellowship last year to launch a newspaper that connects incarcerated individuals with invaluable resources—uses a phrase we really. She points to a number of well-meaning agencies who are designing seemingly impactful solutions “about us, without us.” It goes without saying that when we design “for” not “with,” the projects that develop are mediocre at best. We end up with addiction-prevention apps proposed to benefit folks who don’t carry smartphones; parking meters that collect change for the homeless while preventing the giver from ever connecting with the person whom she seeks to support; and storefront developments that fail because legacy neighbors can’t afford $14.00 rib tips. I could go on. You get it.

I don’t claim to be an expert collaborator. In fact, I lose sleep nights before I’m scheduled to facilitate a group conversation or project. Though I continue to find myself in positions of leadership, being the driver in the room still makes my stomach flutter. But I’m learning. And work that enables me to learn day after day seems like work worth doing.

Last night, DJ and I attended a very interesting event called The Next Stage: Real People Speaking Frankly About Difficult Questions. Hosted by lauded designer/writer/educator Jessica Helfand, this unique event brought together 35 folks from a variety of backgrounds—designers, scientists, anthropologists, academics, corporate people, etc.—to basically spend three hours collectively responding to questions like:

what are the unintended consequences behind our good intent?

how do we learn to interrogate our own held assumptions in the moment?

what is the privilege of having a pulse? (i.e. being human)

why are we obsessed with scale? and why do we only think about scaling up, never down?

why do we talk about power as if we don't have any?

how do we learn to be with difference?

The conversations that developed in this open forum were enlightening. We explored ideas like the breakdown in understanding of a common good in America and what we might do to get it back. The room suggested that to build a thriving society we need a shift to valuing souls over money. We discussed how we're conditioned to depersonalize (think big data) even though we recognize that to solve problems for real people we need close proximity to said problem and said people. We talked about how we measure success and wondered if success in our work could simply look like shaping one conscience, compassionate human heart at a time. The topics were rich and the wisdom in the room was palpable.

But alas, conversation does not equal action does it? For folks who tend to measure value by hard and fast outcomes and tangible takeaways, (i.e. most of us), I imagine an event like this one could be considered a waste of time or, at the very least, frustrating. Yet, if we're only after concise deliverables, then we're not allowing ourselves to see something far greater: let's call it a shared moment of emptying. In our short time together, we shared intensely personal and meaningful stories from our lived experience. There was a realness and a rawness pouring out from the voices in the room. In some ways, it was as if we had created a collective "confessional booth"—a space to both share something held deep within ourselves and to listen with great attentiveness to fellow humans across the aisle. To me, this felt like precisely the outcome we need more of.

It's clear that society is balancing on a precipice and something must shift if we expect to remain standing through the prevailing headwinds of division, divisiveness and narcissism. We've lost something. And we need good, moral guides to help us regain our values. I think Jessica is one of those guides. Surely you know others. I'll end by suggesting that we all have what it takes to be good stewards of souls, but we must start by taking a good close look at our own. This is the work. And this work requires patience and persistence, humility and community.

"Education should be the process of helping everyone to discover their uniqueness, to teach them how to develop that uniqueness, and then to show them how to share it because that's the only reason for having anything." —Dr. Leo Buscaglia

I'm fortunate to be in a position today where I get to play a small role in shaping the hearts, hands and minds of many talented young creatives. But from this privileged position, I sometimes worry about what I see. I worry that many of these emerging leaders are trading their creative curiosities for the promise of a job certainty that doesn't even exist. I worry that the designers of tomorrow have lost their desire to look backward as a way of moving forward. (My how few students know their design history!) I worry that our perception of "good design" is becoming nothing more than what's popular on Pinterest. (Eek!) Most of all, I'm worried about the health and wellness of the talented young folks trying to make their way through rigorous design programs where professors lionize competition, confuse critique with coercion and glorify exertion to an extreme degree. (I know an architecture "teacher" who brings a golf club to class on model critique day).

It's with all this in mind, that I write this note to my dear design professors in Detroit. Sue. Liisa. Chad. Doug. Matt. Michelle. Nelson. And there are others. Thank you. Thank you for teaching me how to see. Thank you for sharpening my senses, heightening my awareness and training me to ask "why?". Thank you for gently molding my critical mind. Thank you for teaching me that the role of the designer is foremost to solve problems and create beauty, though not always in that order.

When the career counselors said "get a job," you invited me to learn about the world from a worm's perspective. When the career counselors said "raise your GPA," you invited me to read books that interested me. When the career counselors said "four years left," you reminded me that school is only the beginning. So thank you. Thank you for showing me how to get lost in the library stacks. Thank you for teaching me how to draw inspiration from the sidewalk. Thank you for reminding me that the computer is simply a tool. Thank you for prompting me to dream bigger and for suggesting that my aspirations should stretch far beyond graduation or my first promotion. Thank you for being supportive influencers at the beginning of my journey.

Sending and receiving letters has always been a source of great joy for me. Recently, I've found letter-writing to be a helpful tool for sifting through complex ideas and reflecting on confounding lived experiences—regardless of whether or not the letter actually gets mailed. Here's one I recently wrote to a friend who's processing through some big, bold spiritual questions. I share it here not to impose a belief structure on you, dear reader, but rather to suggest the way in which writing often has the power to help us discover and expand what's most alive within us—spaces we may not have been aware before we started to write. As the beloved Henri Nouwen states: "To write is to embark on a journey whose final destination we do not know." Here's to unknowing.

Dear Mary,

It was great seeing you yesterday even though the time together was entirely too brief! Be that as it may, I'm always encouraged when friendships with certain people seem to pick back up just where they left off as if no time has passed. It was lovely to discover that our friendship is one like that. As I was lying in bed late this morning, something came over me that I feel prompted to share. I admit I was surprised and somewhat saddened to hear you've been wrestling with your faith. I've been there too and I know it can often feel like a dark and lonely place. I hope that you continue to surround yourself with good, compassionate people who are open to sharing their wisdom while letting you be in this foggy space without judgment. I'm sure those people will continue to emerge for you, but if they don't it's really no matter because questions of faith are between you and god anyway.

Your longing for deeper, more meaningful answers to the question, "Why follow Jesus?" prompted me to think about that question more myself. If you'll allow me, I'd like to share some of that with you now: I want to believe in a god who gets low; a god who meets us where we are despite how messed up, whiney, and impossible we humans can sometimes (all the time?!) be. I want to know a god who, like the Dad of the Year, offers endless love, invitation and encouragement even when we keep getting it wrong. I want to celebrate a god who declares, "It is finished!" A god who says, "It's done, stop striving, stop worrying, stop struggling, you are good, you don't have to be perfect, I love you, just be." Above all else, I want to know this god who says every human life is beautiful and valuable. I want to know this god who proclaims all creation to be deeply sacred and interdependent. I want to know this god who assures us that beneath the pain of this life—with all it's heartbreak, cancer and acne—that there's a bigger story of restoration unfolding. And finally, I want to know this god who longs to know us right back and longs for us to enjoy this life and this relationship with him. This is a god who gives us sunsets on Easter—not to shame us back to church, but just because sunsets are one of the most perfect and beautiful things are eyes can see. I don't understand it, but I want it. I want to be united with this divine creator in a way that is supremely relational, not intellectual.

I don't share this to convince you of any belief structure or to coax you back into a box you don't desire to belong. I share it because I believe, like it or not, that this god used our conversations at a wedding banquet in Nashville to remind me why I believe what I believe and to strengthen that belief even more. He used you friend! It makes no sense. But that's a god I want to know and follow—a god who flips logic upside down to accomplish giant things in seemingly small ways. What a divine mystery.